One day the trees will reclaim the street,
braid their roots, unfasten their demons,
split the asphalt open.

Parks will find their voices again in rain
when storms wander the sky
like stray hounds hunting sleep.

Plants will cup the dark with blind hands,
feel for a bloodstream underground
until sunlight gnaws the clouds to bone.

No more forests as backdrops,
no trees cast as extras.
Wood loosens its flesh,
inscribes its own rings.

We move through our questions in silence.
Portents travel under the skin.
Where the road gives out,
something waits to be given.

We too shed bark,
take root in one another,
grow into stubborn growth,

fighting the thirst
of being alive.